by Rob Sinclair
Douglas Ashford, Congressman for Louisiana’s 1st District, wasn’t an arms dealer at all. He was a whistle-blower.
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Mitchell had issued Ryker an ultimatum, but Ryker now firmly believed Willoughby wasn’t in any real danger at the hands of Ashford’s crew. She was with the good guys.
Or at least the guys who were the closest to being good.
Willoughby, wherever she was, would have to wait, because Ryker had an altogether different destination in mind.
And he had a little over ninety minutes to get there.
Just a few hours earlier, in New Orleans, Ryker had been hesitant to steal a car or a motorbike from some unlucky member of the public – not wanting to risk getting into further hot water with local law enforcement. But time wasn’t on his side now. There was only one way Ryker would get to Camp Joseph in time to stop the next shipment of arms and cash leaving for the Mexican cartels – and to confront Powell, whom he was sure wouldn’t miss out on the party. This was Ryker’s chance to put an end to it all.
Ryker hot-wired a 500cc Yamaha motorbike that someone had parked up by a late-opening diner. Unless their wheels were chained, bikes were far easier to snatch than cars, and Ryker took barely sixty seconds to do the business, with patrons of the diner walking past and looking on from the windows none the wiser. The poor sod whose bike it was would soon find he’d been robbed, and Ryker felt a tiny bit bad about that, but he knew the chances of him being caught before he got to Camp Joseph were slim to none.
The nighttime roads were quiet and Ryker pushed the burbling engine of the bike as hard as it would go as he sped toward the army base where a multi-million dollar cache of arms was busily being prepared for transport to the drug cartels of Mexico. Ryker didn’t know who exactly would be on the receiving end of the goods south of the border.
Comisario Vasquez was by now lying in a wooden casket, but he’d always just been a middle-man for the drug-lords. The cartels were still going strong despite the PF man’s violent death, and as long as illegal weapons were coming out of Camp Joseph, there would be a market ready and waiting for those goods, not just in Mexico but anywhere in the world where criminals could afford them.
It was time to cut off the supply at the source.
The time was approaching midnight when Ryker saw the sign indicating the turning for Camp Joseph. The road he turned onto was unlit and surrounded by dense forest either side. The thick clouds in the sky let little moonlight through but Ryker nonetheless turned off the Yamaha’s headlight. He was heading into the unknown, and he’d make his approach cautiously and as stealthily as he could. At least the heavy downpours had subsided for now.
Just like Douglas Ashford, Ryker wanted to get to the truth. Not long before, Ryker had believed this to be someone else’s fight. He’d tagged along with Willoughby as much to get to Powell as to help bring down the weapons smugglers. But Ryker wasn’t a man who could sit and watch while violent crooks got rich and innocent people were threatened and killed. He wanted to put an end to the dodgy deals that were emanating from Camp Joseph for good.
Ryker realised his actions would soon put him in the firing line of both the Louisiana National Guard and the US Army. Colonel Lincoln was a bad apple but how far did the rot spread? Ryker couldn’t assume that every man on the army base was bad, so he wouldn’t go into Camp Joseph all guns blazing. He needed a more tactile approach.
When Ryker was half a mile from the base, he turned the bike off the road and the machine bobbed and jumped as it went over ridges of dirt into the thick forest. Ryker pulled the bike to a stop a hundred or so yards in and turned off the engine. With the tree canopy overhead, the forest was almost entirely black and eerily quiet. With no high-tech night vision equipment, Ryker would have to use nothing more than his instincts to hone in on Camp Joseph from here.
He had a Beretta M9 pistol in his hand, plus a Glock in the backpack slung over his shoulders, together with several spare magazines for each. Still, he was likely to be heavily outgunned should he enter into a firefight, and he would do so only as a last resort. His intention was clear; get to Lincoln. Take the head from the beast, so to speak.
Ryker also believed that Powell would make an appearance, one way or another. He’d wanted to stop the weapons deals too, though Ryker still wasn’t clear from whom Powell was taking his orders.
Regardless, Ryker was now in two minds as to who his main target should be. Powell, who had tried to set Ryker up and who Ryker so desperately wanted to question about Lisa’s disappearance? Or Colonel Lincoln, a man who Ryker had never even met, but who was a piece of scum the world would be far better off without?
Ryker didn’t know the answer. For very different reasons, he wanted to get to them both.
He thought he was about two hundred yards from the edge of the base when the sound of heavy machinery cut through the still air. Ryker stopped and listened. Trucks. Moving in or out of the base, he didn’t know.
Seconds later, a beam of light cascaded through the throng of tree trunks in front. The way the light swept from left to right suggested the vehicle in front was turning. Ryker waited until the beam was pointed away before he moved. Not long after, the tree line thinned and Ryker was soon creeping through overgrown grass.
In the faint moonlight, he saw the chain-link fence denoting the edge of Camp Joseph. Beyond the fence, Ryker could see several large vehicles in the grounds, unmoving and silent. The outlines of various low-rise buildings and bunkers were visible too. Everything was dark and quiet and still, except for a cordoned off area in the centre of the base that was glowing with activity.
With Ryker focused intently on the hustle and bustle ahead of him, he felt his heart lurch when there was a sudden faint cracking sound from behind him. A heavy foot snapping a twig maybe? Or just a rustle of wind that had caused a branch to fall?
Whatever it was, Ryker spun and sunk to the ground, pointing the Beretta out in the direction of the noise – a reflexive reaction while his brain was still processing the possibilities.
Ryker’s finger brushed the gun’s trigger. He held his breath, his eyes darting this way and that.
There was nothing. No movement. No more sounds.
Ryker slowly exhaled. Satisfied there was no one behind him – at least as satisfied as he could be, without wanting to just sit there all night – he crept backward, closer to the fence, still scanning the dark forest. Only when he brushed up against the fence did Ryker return his focus to the base.
Still crouching low on the ground, Ryker slipped off his backpack and removed the thick and dank blanket that he’d taken from the cupboard in his hotel room. In winter it was probably a substitute for central heating in the downtrodden room, and it more than likely spent more than half the year inside the cupboard. Its thick weave though was ideal for Ryker’s needs. He slung the blanket upward and it caught on the rolls of barbed wire at the top of the metal perimeter fence.
Ryker did one more scan of the area inside and outside the base then pushed the Beretta into his waistband and put the backpack over his shoulders again. As quickly and as smoothly as he could, Ryker climbed to the top of the fence, swivelled his body across the blanket, and pushed himself over the other side. Ryker landed on the tarmac and bent his knees and sunk his weight down into a squat, both to cushion his joints from the fall and to limit the noise of his entrance. He immediately darted to a nearby parked vehicle for cover.
The blanket had done a good enough job of getting Ryker over the barbed wire, but it had been far from perfect. As Ryker dashed across the open ground, he could feel several sharp pains on his arms, legs, and back where the barbs had poked through the blanket and sunk into his flesh. Ryker ignored the stabbings. If he came away with those as his only wounds it would be a job well done.
From the safety of cover, Ryker did a more thorough recce of the area in front of him. As he was doing so, he heard the thundering whumph from the engine of a flatbed truck. He spun round the
side of the vehicle he was hunkered down by to get a better look at where the noise was coming from.
The truck was inside the grounds already, coming away from the camp’s main entrance and toward where Ryker was hiding. The cab moved up to within a few yards of where Ryker was squatted, its glaring headlights lighting up the whole area. Its airbrakes hissed as it came to a stop. The beep-beep of its reverse indicator came on and the truck moved backward, toward the inner sanctum of the base.
Ryker focused in once again on that cordoned-off area, which was lit-up red by the taillights of the truck. In the darkness it was hard to make out exactly what he was staring at. It appeared the fence around the area had been covered in dark plastic sheeting to screen whatever lay beyond. That had to be the place Ryker was looking for.
When the truck was almost adjacent to the covered fence, a discreet gate – also covered in plastic – rolled open and Ryker got a glimpse of what lay beyond: corrugated steel bunkers, forklift trucks whirring and buzzing about the place, large wooden crates waiting to be loaded, and several men at work, scuttling back and forth.
Ryker had no doubt what was happening in there.
Were these criminal activities really being carried out right under the noses of the National Guard soldiers on the base? They couldn’t all be part of the deception. Or maybe the Louisiana National Guard had been shipped out of Camp Joseph for good. There were certainly no signs of life coming from the buildings around Ryker.
He pulled alongside a wooden-slatted wall and stole a glance around the corner into the open. All clear.
Staying low, Ryker moved on again, using parked vehicles and other obstacles to quickly close the distance to the inner fence. He pulled up alongside the plastic sheeting just as the truck was swallowed up on the inside and the gate rolled shut.
On the outside, all went quiet and still once more. High above Ryker the thick clouds parted briefly, and bright moonlight helped Ryker to more clearly make out the entrance to the camp in the distance. He counted at least three men stationed there, but they were the only men in sight. All of the action taking place was beyond the fence that Ryker was now standing by.
Ryker had a choice. He could scale the fence in front of him. The plastic covering meant he would already be protected enough from any barbed wire. But he had no idea what he’d be jumping down into.
The other option was to wait for the gate to open again and find a way to sneak through. But was he really going to take on every man who was on the other side?
Ryker wasn’t given any more time for deliberation. He heard the clinking and rattling as the metal gate once again rolled open and the noise of a truck as it got ready to break out. Ryker side-stepped closer to the gaping entrance, standing tall and pushing his body right up against the fence to give himself as much cover as he could.
The truck’s headlights flicked on and two bright beams of yellow reached out across the grounds of the base, as far as to the security huts at the main entrance.
At the same time, on the other side of the barriers, out in the darkness of the night, Ryker saw beams as another truck approached to take on its load of Mexico-bound goods.
The front of the exiting truck poked past the fence. With the sudden intrusion of illumination all around, Ryker could clearly make out the face of the driver high up in the cab. He was focused on the area ahead, oblivious to Ryker’s presence just yards away.
The truck edged out toward the main entrance, its massive engine causing the ground to shudder, the vibrations moving up through Ryker’s feet and into his body.
And then, without warning, the truck exploded into a ball of fire.
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The huge vehicle seemed to jump up into the air before crashing down on the tarmac. The blast sent Ryker reeling backward just out of reach of the flames licking out from the side of the truck. He tried to refocus his whirring mind, disoriented from the force of the explosion. He heard shouting and gunfire both from inside and outside the inner area.
The flames in front of Ryker soon died down, but further booms and bangs echoed through the air. Grenades? Ryker saw shadows darting through the darkness, black-clad figures descending on the inner sanctum.
Powell. It had to be.
A tactical armed raid, much like the one Powell had sprung on Vasquez back in Pachuca. That time there had been no need for explosives, but taking on the US Army was a different prospect.
Powell’s presence made Ryker’s position very interesting indeed. He was sure the raid would be directed at the heart of the base, the area beyond the covered fence. Ryker would avoid heading into the centre of the melee. Better to wait for the two sides to take each other out before getting involved.
Ryker darted forward toward the blazing truck as bullets whizzed by, and shouts and calls came from all directions. The driver of the truck – his whole body alight, flames streaming off him – had thrown himself from the cab and was rolling on the ground screaming in agony.
There were pops and bangs coming from the back of the truck as the many rounds of ammunition that were stashed there succumbed to the heat of the fire. Ryker ran past the driver, around the side of the truck, and headed for the building directly in front, that looked to be a semi-permanent office-type block.
As Ryker flung himself toward the wall of the building, he heard a hiss, and saw a trail of orange fire – a rocket-propelled grenade launched in the near distance. The speeding round whizzed by Ryker and in through the open gate where it exploded into the side of one of the wooden crates. The force of the blast sent three men to the ground, with flames and shrapnel hurtling into the air.
Ryker came to a stop by the building and slid around the corner of the structure, moving into cover from the heart of the fight. Just then, a door sprang open right in front of him. The light from the corridor beyond the door seeped out into the darkness, silhouetting the army-fatigue clad man who emerged. Ryker pulled up his gun, but before he could even think of firing the sound of suppressed gunfire blasted and bullets tore into the soldier who’d moved barely a yard out into the open. Momentum sent him skidding along the ground. Then he went still.
The door in front of Ryker swung shut and there, just on the other side of the doorway, a few feet across from Ryker, was the shooter, emerging from the darkness. He was dressed from head to toe in black, night vision goggles lifted up over his face which was streaked with black polish. His eyes sprang wide open in shock when he clocked Ryker right in front of him. He twisted the barrel of his M4 rifle away from the fallen soldier.
Ryker’s gun barrel too was pointed away. He bent down and thrust his body forward as he pulled his gun around and ploughed into the man, just as the guy pressed on the rifle’s trigger. They both tumbled as bullets whizzed into the air. Ryker lost the Beretta.
The man’s rifle was useless as they grappled; he seemed to quickly realise that, dropped it and reached for a sidearm. Ryker saw that move coming. He delivered a fist to the man’s face, an elbow to his kidney, and when he smashed the guy’s forearm against the ground, the handgun went scuttling away.
Having taken care of the obvious move with ease, Ryker only realised at the last second that the man was already arcing a hunting blade toward Ryker’s throat. He was a quick mover. But not quick enough. Ryker lifted his arm and ducked his head. The knife flashed passed Ryker’s throat, only missing him by tenths of an inch. Then he desperately wrestled for control of the weapon.
Despite the imminent danger, Ryker’s mind was busy not thinking about how to win the fight, but about who he was actually fighting against. If this was Powell’s guy, was he a good guy or not? Ryker didn’t know the answer to that anymore.
Could he kill this man not knowing?
The obvious answer was Ryker didn’t want to. But if he had too...
One of Ryker’s hands was now wrapped around the man’s fist that was holding onto the knife. Ryker clasped his other hand onto the man’s wrist, and using the strength in both arms, push
ed the blade away. Straining, Ryker edged the knife’s tip in an arc toward his opponent.
The man struggled for control, using his free arm to pummel Ryker’s side. The blows began to take their toll, but Ryker remained focused. Moments earlier, the knife had been a fraction of an inch from Ryker’s throat. Now it was that far from the man’s, and the guy simply didn’t have an answer. He panted and shouted, bucking his body as the point of the knife edged closer and closer to his skin. Ryker knew that with just one more burst of strength the knife would plunge through the man’s neck, piercing his windpipe and severing the carotid artery right by it in one blow. He’d be dead in seconds from massive blood loss.
The man was at Ryker’s mercy...
Ryker jerked his hands to the left and pushed down and the knife dug into the man’s shoulder. He shouted out in pain. Ryker released his hands and jumped to his feet and crashed the heel of his boot down into the side of the man’s head.
The man’s head lolled. He was unconscious.
Ryker grabbed the guy’s M4 and slung himself back up against the side of the building as he once again scoped for threats. The sound of explosions and gunfire and shouting was still going but it all seemed confined to the inner sanctum now. Yet the soldier who’d been shot had come rushing from the door just in front of Ryker. No one had come out since, but when the door had been open Ryker had noticed lights on in there. If Lincoln had yet to join the fight – as was likely for the head honcho – there was a good chance he was inside.
Holding onto the M4 with one hand, Ryker reached out and carefully opened the door. Inside was a straight corridor, softly lit by a row of flickering strip lights. All was quiet and still as though the narrow building was cocooned from the chaos outside.
Ryker stepped in. He moved slowly and quietly, not just to mask his own movements but in order to better hear any noises ahead of him.
He heard nothing.
